Black and White
by Ren Sarine
Summary: If Harley has to choose, the only decision she regrets making in the past two months is putting on that leopard print bra this morning. Not even coming here, to face her pretty imminent death. Oh, how mad! love is.
1. ONE

Author's Note: Just so you all know, writing fanfiction makes me super cool. And reading fanfiction, makes you guys cool too. Just wanted to clear that up.

**ONE**

_**If Harley has to choose, the only decision she regrets making in the past two months is putting on that leopard print bra this morning. Not even coming here, to face her pretty imminent death. Oh, how mad! love is.**_

_Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is four stories tall. Over eight hundred rooms. Divided into two wards, the curable and the incurable. Frequent escapes._ She remembers when she wrote this for the first time. A shiver went through her arms then.

"Why did you bring your notes?" Her friend nearly dumps her slushy martini over Harley's nice handwriting. "You're not normally this much of an egghead."

"They're offering me a job there."

"Where?" She asks this louder than she needs to. Harley points at her heading. "Gotham? When are you going _there?_"

"Next week."

"Harley, that place is _bad_. It's a crime hole."

"But don't forget about the superheroes," she reminds her.

She laughs heartily. Like a sailor. "You mean the crazy guy who puts a cape on each night to 'rid the streets of evildoers'?" She uses her fingers to indicate the air quotes. Harley finds it unnecessary.

"Well, he seems to be doing a fair job." Harley bites down on the inside of her cheek momentarily. "He locked up the guy I'm going to treat."

The martini almost spills again. "Which would be?"

She bites her cheek for a second time. "They call him the – Joker."

The martini spills out and drips off the side of the bar counter. "The Joker." Harley fumbles for one hundred percent recycled napkins. "He _kills _people."

She nods while mopping up the green slush. "Most inmates have."

"No, no, no, no, no." The woman slaps her hand over Harley's to gain her attention. It works. "He kills people _while_ he's still locked up. Haven't you heard all the reports? He's killed people _in_ there."

"Of course I've heard the reports," Harley replies, agitated. Forty-six psychiatrists killed. Thirty-two psychiatrists mentally disabled. Twenty-seven psychiatrists injured. One hundred and two nurses killed. Sixty-two nurses injured. Twelve guards killed. Two guards injured. One warden killed. All this is in her notes.

"And you're _still_ going to be his therapist?"

"Mental health counselor," Harley corrects.

"But – _why?_"

Harley shrugs and wonders the same thing herself. "I suppose it has something to do with all the money they're offering." (An abnormal amount.) "And I can't say no. No one else will take the job."

"With good reason," her friend mumbles. Harley only sticks her tongue out at her. "Aren't you scared?" she continues. Her voice is small.

"Oh yes," Harley answers immediately. "Beyond measure."


	2. TWO

**TWO**

They ordered a new one. And so soon, too. Joker is amazed that Arkham has enough money to buy _another_ life. He wonders how many more doctors it will take for them to realize how downright pointless these little _sessions_ were. Two? Twenty-two? Two hundred twenty-two? At this rate, it seems endless.

But no! This chick really knows what she's doing! She's the best in the biz! The number one psychiatric physician in the entire country; maybe even possibly the world. If anyone could fix him, _she_ could. But of course, that's what they always say.

With his arms wrapped uncomfortably around him, courtesy of the stylish jackets Arkham supplies, he is strapped down tighter than ever before. So the last incident had been a bit – sticky, what can you expect with only a paper clamp? If they wanted the inevitable _incidents_ to be less grotesque, they should really provide him with better materials.

One guard, two guard, three guard, four. It's as if they don't trust him at all. Then _she _follows.

Unlike her predecessors, her hair isn't bundled up in a librarian like bun, square-rimmed glasses don't cover her oh-so-bright, bright blue eyes, and she doesn't wear fancy stilettos that serve no purpose here in an insane asylum.

She turns around on the spot and catches the eyes of the guards before her. What's this? No protection? Too brave for burly henchmen? What a dumb, overly-confident little doctor. Dumb, dumb, dumb doctor. Three of the four leave without hesitation, without a care in the world for another doctor death. Arkham couldn't dock their pay anymore than they already have. But the last one _does _hesitate. He's the new guy, Hank is it? He doesn't want any blood on his hands. But he'll get used to it. _Oh_ he'll get used to it. She smiles sweetly and nods and tells him "It'll be okay" all with her eyes. He leaves.

Turning on her heal, she sits herself down on the steel chair that must freeze through her thin pencil skirt, and slaps a relatively thick manila folder atop the table separating them.

Joker rocks back and forth in his own steel chair, trusting the chains that chafe his ankles to keep him from falling. He waits impatiently for her to break the ice, but she doesn't. She only flips through the manila folder, scribbling here and underlining there.

"Hi!" Joker says finally, bored with being ignored.

She looks up to face him and meets his coal eyes. Completely bare and natural, he isn't quite what Harley had expected. He looks like a man, not a clown. Just a man with unfortunate Glasgow scars and exceptionally yellow teeth. "Hi," she responds, somehow managing to keep the fear out of her voice. "So here's the deal." She slaps her hands over the manila folder. "I'm going to stop you on all your medication. No doubt you just vomit up the oral ones anyway, so it shouldn't affect your system too much."

Severely intrigued, Joker listens intently while shimmying his wrist free of one of the clasps. "And why is that doc?"

"Well, for one, you aren't crazy."

His brow furrows and he is somewhat ashamed of his obvious confusion. "I know that."

She nods. "Yes, and it's true. Although no one seems to believe how a perfectly sane person can reveal the madness of the world in such a horrid way. But I believe it. So I'm stopping all your medication."

He ponders the idea. "Interesting choice of treatment. Don't fix a dog if it doesn't need it, eh?"

"I _do_, however, think you're in the wrong ward," Harley continues.

"I just go where they tell me to." He stops and thinks over his word choice. "Or where they throw me in."

Harley leans in just half an inch closer. "Most mental health counselors start off with a very positive, completely false outlook with their patients. But that's not how I do it." Joker slides his tongue quickly over his bottom lip while she blabbers. "I'm a straightforward type of person. So, I'm going to have to say that there's no way you will change your ways, even though that's what I'm getting paid to do. Because you _aren't_ crazy, this is your lifestyle, and psychiatrists can't change a lifestyle."

"The incurable ward, eh?" He stares for a moment and then begins to burst into impossible laughter. It's enough to make any _normal_ person run far, far away, but Harley just watches him in interest. "You – you _really_ don't know how deep the water is."

Harley weaves a pencil in between her delicate little fingers. She could have expected this. "Maybe not, but I'm not completely unaware."

"Oh?"

She stops for a moment, and then changes the subject. "What's you're name?" she asks pleasantly.

He cocks his head and wonders what she's implying? Is he crazy enough not to know his own name, or is she just making conversation? "Clown Prince of Crime. The Ace of Knaves. Harlequin of Hate. Mongrel of Mountebanks." He smiles to himself. "Joker. And yours?"

"No, no. Not _that_ name. I mean your real name. The name on your birth certificate, assuming you haven't permanently disposed of it yet."

He starts laughing again. "Names are so – unconditional. And I prefer things to be more… relative."

"I see."

"You didn't answer _my_ question, love."

"Which was?"

"_Your_ name?"

She laughs this time, much less maniacally. "If you won't tell me your name, then I won't tell you mine."

There is a definite _crack_ as Joker dislocates his right arm. The only effective way to completely remove a straight jacket. But she doesn't seem to notice at all. "Ah, so that's how you play then, is it?"

"I suppose." Harley lowers her eyelids at him and examines him thoroughly. She leans in over the table so that she is only inches away from his face. "You kill everyone who ever comes in this room eventually. Maybe you won't kill that new guard today, but you will, eventually. You think I haven't noticed how you're completely free of your restraints and now just trying to think of a fun way to do it." With that, all four guards rush in, are ever-so-shocked to see that he managed to escape from his bindings (again), and restrain him. "I'm not completely unaware of how deep the water is."


	3. THREE

**THREE**

An odd wind blows through Harley's semi-furnished apartment. Pictures fall off their shelves and doors slam. One folder lying on the lime bedspread flies open rapidly and its contents flutter all about the room.

Blonde hair impairs her vision as Harley tries to collect all the loose files. She feels around the wood floor until her hand comes to a small document. Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she meets his face. The mug shot could very well be even more frightening than the real thing. Coal eyes and a toothy smile; in an instant Harley swears the picture winks at her. She drops the Polaroid in shock and quickly shoves it underneath the bed.

"I guess I'm not as scary as I thought." Joker smiles welcomingly when Harley enters the room with Hank the new guy following.

Harley makes a point to keep his eye contact, but finds it increasingly difficult with each step towards him. She doesn't speak, only sits, and waits for him to start the conversation.

"Had some pea soup last night." She nods. "What'd you have for dinner, Jane?"

"That's not my name."

"Got you to talk, though." He raises his eyebrows briefly before letting them fall again.

She sighs and asks, "How long do you usually last in these?"

"What? Our little _sessions?_" He shrugs. "Depends on how much I enjoy them."

"Ah… and are you enjoying yourself now?"

He shrugs again. "Depends on how you view enjoyment."

She looks down at the table and nods to his vagueness. Without focusing on him anymore, she pulls out a blank sheet of paper and a pen from her clipboard. After drawing several dashes and a noose, she tells him to give her a letter.

"W," he guesses.

"W?"

"Does the letter offend you, Kate?"

Harley smiles genuinely. "You won't be able to guess it," she tells him while sketching a head under the noose.

"It's still fun to try. U." She scrawls a capital U over the third dash out of eight and indicates for him to keep going with her free hand. "E." Seventh letter. "M." She draws a line extending from the head. "P." One arm. "T." Sixth. "C." The other arm. "I." One leg. "R." Eighth. "A." Second. "G." Fourth. He's got it now. "L. H." Harley looks at the complete word. "Laughter," Joker says. "Any particular reason you chose that word?"

Harley keeps her eyes on the paper. "I hear you like to laugh."

"Like my mother always told me, laugh even if something's not funny. And you know what? Now everything's funny." He laughs to prove a point. "You should try it, Megan. You look like you need a little but a fun in your life."

"It's not Megan." Harley finds herself feeling a tinge of offense. "And you don't know me."

"So you know me, Silvia? What, with all your _years of training_."

"Not Silvia. And no, I don't know you at all. But I'm getting there."

"Everybody is so certain that I'm a very _complicated person_." Joker stretches his tongue out to his scars. Just to feel the textured surface. "I must of spent _years_ dealing with childhood traumas and an abusive father. I must've lost someone incredibly harrowingly. I must have some sort of mental disability that forces me to be _the way that I am._" His black eyes lock into Harley's brilliant blue eyes. "I'm not a complicated person, Doctor. I just know what my calling is in life. You –" he gestures to her, as if he could be referring to anyone else. "You understand that I'm not crazy. Yet you're still convinced that I'm _complicated._ I'm not. I just follow a _philosophy_."

Harley pauses. Then smiles a very small smile to herself. "So then I do know you?"

Joker laughs. He laughs a very _ha! ha!_ belly laugh. He laughs until his teeth ache. And after minutes of laughing, he begins to consider the reality of the question. "Well," he smiles towards her again, "you certainly know me better than any of the other loons that have come in here."

"Oh really?" Harley isn't persuaded.

"You had me at, 'I'm going to stop you on all your medication.'" Harley can't help but let out a laugh. "Trust me, laughing isn't a crime. Even though these people treat it like one."

"Trust isn't black and white, Mister Joker."

He wonders briefly if she had come up with that one all by herself. "Wanna know how I got these scars?"

Harley tries hard to keep herself from laughing again. "I'd rather not. I prefer to use my imagination."


	4. FOUR

**FOUR**

Her phone rings. It wants to make sure she's still alive. Harley tells her friend in a monotone that _everything was fine_, and _no she was not injured severely_. Or at all. Her friend is amazed. She thought for sure Joker would kill her. Confidence is a funny thing.

While the woman on the other end continues to babble on, Harley makes some guacamole and hardly says a word throughout the conversation. Scuffling back to her bedroom, she mutters the occasional "Mm hmm" so the other line knows she's listening. At the foot of her bed, she feels his Polaroid with her toes. She bites down hard on a Mexican tortilla chip. And her heart skips a beat.

"Good day to you, Mister Joker."

As far as the past few visits have gone, Joker has noticed a pattern with his _new and improved_ doctor (although he always notices patterns). _This_ doctor always had _Joker_ make the first move. Never had she come in with something to say. Or rather, something to teach. But now she's throwing him another curve ball. Maybe he should try to expect the unexpected from now on. "Good day, Louise."

"Nope." His face twinges with disappointment. "So I hear you've been having fun in the cafeteria."

"Ah…" Now his faces lights up. It's Christmas for all he knows. "I was thinking about you the whole time."

Harley raises her eyebrows. "Oh goody. An attempt to kill Jeremiah Arkham with a can of peas, dedicated just to me."

"Oh, come on Carrie." Harley shakes her head: No. "Even you, the good guy, can see how sadistic he is."

"And you _aren't_ sadistic?"

"Is that what I said?" he asks genuinely. "See, I'm the bad guy. It's perfectly acceptable."

"Just the same, if you're going to try and kill anyone here, kill me okay?"

Nobility? "Kill _you_? Why would I want to kill _you_? What would I do without you? You may be my doctor, and I tend to…" He struggles to find the appropriate words, "enjoy 'firing' my doctors myself, if you will. But you see, you aren't the typical, 'Let's talk about your feelings' shrinky-dink. No… no. No! No, you – you are something else entirely. You see, the last person I would kill in the _sadistic_ hell hole, would be you."

As much as Harley hated to admit it, this was extraordinarily mitigating to hear. He wasn't going to kill her. Or at least, he wasn't planning on it. But something told Harley that Joker wasn't much the guy for plans.

"Did I try Anne yet?" he asks now.

"You didn't." Joker waits for her answer, and she shakes her head. "You're going to have to get more creative than that."

"Rumplestiltskin," he says, confident now. But she shakes her head, laughing. "Creativity is so uncreative, you know," he begins and Harley readies herself for another philosophy lesson, provided by probably one of the world's greatest philosophers. "See, most of the time, it's just people trying to be smart; trying to be cute."

"Tell me about it," Harley mutters, more to herself than to Joker.

"Is your name cute, Clarissa?"

"Incredibly cute. And not Clarissa."


	5. FIVE

**FIVE**

"Let's get straight down to the basics." She closes the door behind her. No Hank today. Was her _not black and white_ trust beginning to fade one way or the other (depending which was black and which was white)?

Joker rocks back and forth on his chains and folds his shackled hands on the table. They rattle and clank. "All righty then. The basics."

Harley swallows. Why was it _so hard_ to talk to this man? But, then again, she's never found it easier to have a real conversation with anyone but him. "Let's say you see a pretty girl walking down the street."

He licks his lips. Then puts on a slightly confused face. "How exactly do you define 'basic'?"

She smiles. "Just go with me here." Joker shrugs and nods. He enjoys her attitude. Is it different? He wouldn't be surprised. "So you see this pretty girl walking along, just minding her own business – What do you do?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "That depends. Am I normal in this scenario?"

"You're yourself."_ Which is normal._

"Then I'd give her my number." Joker smiles to himself. Harley isn't as amused and lowers her eyelids. "_Why_ is this relevant?"

She licks the corners of her mouth. Joker finds this rather interesting. "I want to know how you react around women."

Joker raises an eyebrow. _Why?_ But he doesn't dare ask. No. He wants to find out on his own. Because that's half the fun! "I'm not what you'd call…" his eyes dart across the ceiling, as if the words he wants to say might be written there, "a _'set in stone'_ kind of guy." Harley nods, agreeing completely with his reasoning. Reasonable reasoning, she reasons. "You see, it all depends on my _mood_. I might kill her. I might kiss her." He shrugs again. Indifferent. "It depends," again.

She is doodling in the corners of his manila file. Is she even listening? A bizarre surge of anger and frustration bubbles to the top of his skin and he wiggles his fingers to try and release it. He knows how people are. They're predictable. They're easy to read. But this girl, since the moment she walked in, is nowhere near predictable. Nowhere near easily read. And it entirely, absolutely, _annoys_ him.

"What are you _doing?_" he snarls.

She looks up at his coal eyes, confused, not alarmed. Not afraid at all. Again, an unexpected move. "Uh… drawing." She says it like a question.

"Are you paying attention?" A snarl again.

Looking from side to side (as _if_ he is joking!), she says, "Of course. I wanted to know, didn't I?" He supposes her point is valid. "Would you like me to _stop_ drawing?"

Joker doesn't want to, but he mutters a, "_Yes,_" and Harley puts down her pencil (possibly too close to him). Maybe it's a test. Maybe it's a fluke.

"You certainly do get jealous easily, don't you?"

_Does she fear him at all?_ "Jealous?" Was that even the right word? "Jealous!" And despite his anger, despite his sudden hatred, he laughs. She's _right!_ He does get jealous easily. When the Batman fights other criminals, he gets jealous. When another robber beats him to the punch, he gets jealous. When the mob has a greater advantage over Gotham than he does, he gets jealous. When his (so far) favorite person doesn't focus _all her attention_ on his (if he does say so himself) intriguing answer to her very own question, _oh!_ he gets jealous. And now he laughs. _He laughs!_ How _funny_ realization is! "You're _good!_"

And Harley wonders if that is a real complement.

She figures she might as well change the subject while she's "on a roll": "So Mister Joker, I _know_ you don't intend on spend the rest of your life locked up in a padded cell, talking to me."

He lets out another small spell of laughter. She really _should_ stop. His stomach was beginning to hurt. "What makes you say that? I'm having the time of my life."

Harley stops. She stares deep into Joker's imperfect face. From ear to ear, a smile is carved. But on his lips, there is no true smile. Just illegitimate laughter. Can someone, someone _sane_ (and Harley knows _full well_ that Joker is indeed sane) really switch from rage to a blasé manner so quickly? She refused to think otherwise. "But you have plans that go outside these walls."

"Psh, plans!" He smiles crookedly, trying with difficulty to keep from laughing. His stomach really was beginning to hurt him. "Me and plans do not mix, Yolanda." Harley shakes her head. "Like oil and vinegar." Then he looks deeply into her eyes. So deeply, Harley feels the inexpressible urge to close them, just for some false sense of escape. "I would think _you _of all people would've grasped that."

"Yeah, well." She turns away to regain her confidence. "Everyone slips." She almost forgets what she's trying to say. "The point is," she throws him a very quick glare (so quick that Joker almost misses it) instructing him to remain focused, "you don't want to stay here for the rest of your life. How could you? You've got _goals _outside of here. Don't you want to accomplish them?"

"That's incredibly easy for a person who actually _has_ accomplished their goals to say."

"Who, me?" _Well, who else?_ "What do you mean? _This_," she wags her finger between Joker and herself, "wasn't a lifelong dream of mine. I didn't just wake up one morning when I was a kid and say, 'I want to evaluate criminals when I grow up!'"

"Then why are you here?" Joker asks seriously. _Why so serious?_

Harley gets up from her chair, in her black pencil skirt and too-tight (too sexy for Arkham) blouse and throws one last glance his way for the day. "You tell me."


	6. SIX

**SIX**

Hank The Guard smiles warmly the next cold morning. Much too cold of a morning for work attire. "Good morning Doctor Quinzel. You like nice today."

She looks down at her Saturday jeans. Oh yes, very nice. "Hank, please – call me Harley. Doctor Quinzel is too formal for a place like this."

Hank smiles like he's just tasted honey for the first time. And he wonders briefly if she'd accept an offer for a date.

"Thanks for the compliment." She steps into the cell as Hank unlocks the door and holds it open for her. Across the room, the Joker sits, positively giddy. "What?" she dares.

"I see why you chose this job."

She takes her seat opposite from him and crosses her legs. "Oh, you do, do you?"

"You are so _bored_ with your life that you're willing to risk it each day, just for the thrill. You don't care about _helping me,_ you just enjoy the danger."

Harley ponders the suggestion. "Interesting theory, Detective." Joker lets out a small snort at her humor. "You just might be right."

His smile fades. "What?"

"You're right."

"Right?"

"Yes."

"Just like that?"

"Well, that's usually how right answers go."

Joker watches her eyes. They are noticeably different from every other pair of eyes on the planet. These eyes pop. These eyes demand attention. These eyes are unreadable.

"So I've decided that I do want to know how you got your scars," she says now.

He smiles widely, the scars scrunching with the smile, and his mind begins to race. "I was in China–"

"Oh my God," Harley interrupts, agitated. "Once," she holds up an index finger closely to his face, "just once in your life, will you tell the truth?" Joker opens his mouth, but Harley stops him once more. "Yes, I know that you prefer everything to be _relative_, _including_ the truth… but there's a time and a place for relativity."

"Every minute of the day, beautiful," he retorts.

"Chained to a chair inside a padded cell would _not_ be the time for relativity, Mister Joker."

And he mutters, "Says you," and begins to rock back and forth again at the mention of his chains. "We were expecting…" Harley's 'unreadable' eyes now widen – She just couldn't help herself. His voice is too solemn, too serious to be normal. "And we had no money. I didn't have a job and we _needed_ money. I started robbing with," he shrugs quickly, "a bad crowd, you could say. Not terrible, but bad all the same." He doesn't look at her, but continues to sway. "One night, things go bad. Cops come and all the guys scatter. Somehow, they find a reason to put the blame on me. They push me off the roof, and I land on my face, with a knife in my cheek." Harley can't keep her eye from twitching at the imagery. He looks up at her now, as if sensing her increasing discomfort. "They thought I was dead, but I guess that wasn't enough for them… When I got home later that night, her throat was cut so deep, when I held her in my arms…" he starts to laugh, or maybe cry, "her head nearly dropped off."

And Harley gets it. He had a wife. He could have had a child. He had a life. Money – that's all it was. Money, such a preposterous thing to equilibrate happiness on, had been his downfall. It was tragic. Almost funny.

"So, naturally, when I saw my face later that night," he licks his right cheek. "I just had to complete it." And he licks the left side of his face, using his tongue as an indicator. "So now, no matter how bad things get, I'm always smiling." He sucks on his teeth and leans in as close as his restraints will allow him. "Aren't you glad you asked?"

And somehow, Harley manages a very, very tiny smile. "You know I don't believe you."

He giggles. _Ha! Ha! Hoo! Hoo!_ "Good story, though, right?"

"No," she shakes her head so her hair flies. "Not at all."

"Ah, everyone's a critic."

There's a long pause that could have been awkward, but Joker doesn't let awkward silences get to him, and Harley is too busy thinking to notice the discomfiture.

"When's your birthday, Mister Joker?"

But Joker just squints at her, as if she were some blinding light. "Are you bipolar?" She doesn't answer, just waits for his answer. "I don't remember."

"That's a lie."

His eyebrows shoot up. "I'm a man of my word, Lizzie." She shakes her head; No. "Why do you wanna know, anyway – my birthday?"

"Everyone has a birthday, Mister Joker. Even you, the psychotic clown, have a birthday. Mine's April fourth, 1980. And I'm pretty damn sure yours isn't April first."

_Ha! Ha! Hoo! Hoo!_ "If I don't have a name, I don't have a birthday."


	7. SEVEN

**SEVEN**

"How many weeks have you been working with him?"

Harley scratches her head. "Almost… two and a half months."

"Well there you go. That's a long while, Harley." Truth be told, she hadn't really taken into consideration the _time_ that has passed. "You deserve a break. Don't they give you some days off at that place?"

Did they? Harley supposed so.

"Well then take a couple off. Live in the real world for a change. I'm sure by now the clown's starting to get to you."

Yeah. Maybe so.

"How are you and Don doing?"

Don? She hadn't thought about him all that much. Well, they had talked on the telephone last night. Why?

"Well, you guys were talking engagement before you left for Gotham. Now is that just – on hold?"

Engaged? To Don? Harley did not see that happening. But she knew better than to say that.

"Hey, why don't you and I get together next week? We haven't seen each other in…" two and a half months, "a long time. Call me when you can get off of work."

"Will do."

* * *

When she steps into Jeremiah Arkham's office, she is possibly too confident. She reminds herself she needs this. No one has lasted this long with him anyway. Just three days. Max.

"You want a few days off?" he repeats after she's given her request.

"Yes, sir. I think a break would be good for my… mental health."

Arkham shrugs his eyebrows and flips through Joker's folder. "I can't blame you there. All right. He _has_ kept out of trouble for a while. Tomorrow then. And Saturday and Sunday after that."

Harley is too relieved to remember a "thank you". She only walks herself down the old, familiar path, to his _layer_ as he would like to think. A break would be good, she reminds herself. She needs it for her sanity. For her _mental health._

"I've been thinking, Evelyn–"

"Really? Evelyn?" She sits across from him and begins to flip through the file, looking for what Arkham marked. The calendar maybe? She turns the manila folder over and opens the flap.

"Lacy?"

"Nope."

"Belinda?"

She finds herself growing tired of the guessing games rather quickly. "What is it you've been thinking, Mister Joker?"

"Belinda, then?"

"No," she tells him firmly.

"Well, whoever you are, I've been thinking about what you said at the beginning of our get-togethers." Harley tries to recollect. Which part? "You know, when you said that you believed that a perfectly sane person could _reveal the madness of the world_." He said it with such inflection. It was almost too frightening. "…Me."

She nods. "Yes I do believe I was referring to you."

Joker smiles affectionately at her dry wit. "_Well_… Would you mind elaborating on that statement a bit?"

Harley takes in a gulp of oxygen. "Uh," she lets it out slowly and interlocks her fingers behind her head. "Well… I guess I understand where you're coming from." Joker raises and eyebrow and listens intently. He doesn't believe he's ever cared so much for someone's opinion before. Ever. "I mean, _I_ believe that everyone can be just as," she coughs, "evil as you. But they try to tell themselves that people are born _good_ and only freaks and those who paint their faces," Joker's teeth flash a glowing smile "are _evil._ But everybody's evil. To some extent. Most people just try to tell themselves otherwise or at least reverse the curse." She chews on her lip and tries to think. "So, in a way, you're probably the most rational person in Gotham."

Joker considers her words before replying: "So what are you then, Sophie?"

"Not Sophie."

"Are you in the majority; the ones who live in denial? Or the minority – with _me?_" He tilts closer towards her. Anxious. "You don't strike me as the type of person who would follow the crowd."

She wonders herself, where exactly she stands. "I accept my evil nature, but I try not to act on it. I'm not living in _denial_," she tells him. "I understand where you're coming from," she repeats.

"So, you agree with me."

"I agree with your philosophy, not your methods."

"Well, that's a start."_ A start._ Harley smiles, and she can tell that Joker likes it. "Gwen?" No. "Heidi?" Nope. "Ariel?" Not even close. "Renee?" Kind of. "What?" No.

Harley takes one last look at him before she leaves for the day. And for the next three days. It's good to have a break. At least, that's what she's telling herself.

* * *

Holy halibut, I suck at writing long chapters. I really, truly wish I could manage to write more, but for some reason, finding enough words seems to be impossible for me. So - as a result of my horrible word counts - I [will] update a lot.

And... If you have any thoughts at all about this story or this chapter or my writing style or whatever, pretty, pretty please put them into a review. I enjoy constructive criticism as well as (well... yeah) praise. It only takes thirty seconds. Tops. Thank you very, very much for reading! It makes me feel special.


	8. EIGHT

**EIGHT**

"Two days." Hank, along with two other _burly men,_ follow her into the familiar cell. Harley saunters over to the chair in her pencil skirt; to her Joker. The chair squeaks when she sits in it. "I leave you for two days, and you murder two fill-ins."

"You didn't miss much Jeanette, if that's what you're concerned about."

Harley desperately tries to keep her temper from boiling over. "You killed a woman with her own stiletto shoe," she reminds him straightforwardly. "And suffocated the other with a can of Diet Coke."

Joker giggles. She's adorable when she's angry. "So your name _is_ Jeanette!"

"I thought, for some unwise reason that you were beginning to change. I thought that by some miraculous turn of events, you were at least _pointed_ in the right direction. I thought that you would be able to handle two days without me." She paused for a breath. "And no, it's not."

"Oh, don't get yourself all worked up. These things happen."

Harley bores her eyes into his. "I have blood on my hands."

She's absolutely ridiculous. Utterly impossible to peg. "You're really blaming yourself for this?"

"_Yes_ I blame myself for this!"

"Why?!" In all his years of observing the human mind (in the most extreme of ways admittedly), Joker has never been more perplexed by one person.

She rubs her temples in a circular motion. Then she abruptly stops and stares at him confusedly.

Joker looks to his left. Then to his right. "What?"

"What do you think of me?"

"Huh?"

Joker watches her hands. She's fiddling uncomfortably with them. Doesn't she know that's not lady-like? "You haven't tried to kill me since my first day here. And now all of a sudden you've killed two people in the past two days."

Joker cocks an eyebrow. "Everybody slips, love." She remembers when she used those words. "I am _especially_ aware of that fact."

"What I mean to say is–" She starts fiddling again. His hand collides with the hard chains as he jerks it. Blood secretes. "Does that mean it's my turn?"

His eyes flash with life. "Are you scared?"

She only shrugs. "Yes and no."

"Hmm…" Joker begins to hum loudly when his hand finally slides free, but she has stopped fiddling. What to do, what to do with this free hand? The chains drip, drop Joker juice and he wonders if the guards will notice. Doesn't seem like it. He hums louder. "Are you scared or not?" he continues eventually.

"Terrified."

"No you're not," he tells her instead. Harley doesn't understand. "You see, fear is only the beginning. _Terror _is the end. And if you really _were_ terrified, you would have at least run out by now." Her face freezes. "You know." Her eyes flicker down to the pooling blood and then back to his Glasgow face. He is smiling widely.

"Yes."

"And you aren't saying anything."

Hank is distracted with his own hammerhead thumb. The others are enthrawled with his tumb as well. Stupid, stupid guards. They really _should_ pay more attention.

"No."

Joker mulls over this, letting out a, "Hmm…" and flashes her a toothless smile. "I thought you said trust wasn't black and white."

"It's not."

He nearly rips a chunk of her hair out of her head as he heaves her over the top of the table and onto his lap. In a flash, Harley manages to wonder what her father would think when he finds out this is how she died. He always disapproved of her job choice, and the danger it entailed. She imagined he would probably say, "Told you, Harl," over her grave.

But she isn't dead. What is he doing? Is he suffocating her with his _lips?_ No. He isn't killing her. He's kissing her.

But before she has time to provide him with any kind of response, Hank loudly shrieks, "Harley!" and the guards pull her out of Joker's too, too tight grip. Within seconds, he is restrained again. Pain and punishment. _Pain and punishment._

"Harley?!" is all she hears him say (or laugh), before she is escorted out of the room and into the _safety _of the outside world.

* * *

And you thought it wouldn't happen, didn't you?

I am eternally greatful for all the wonderful feedback you've been giving. I love it so much! It makes me smile. And if this chapter puts anything into your brain at all - any thoughts on anything! - then please, please put it into a review. It's right down there... Look down, you'll see it. Twenty seconds out of your life - that's all it takes! Enjoy.


	9. NINE

**NINE**

"Harley!" She cringes at the exclamation of her own name. "You came. I'm touched." She sits across from him and keeps her lips sealed together. As usual. "What? No, 'We need to talk about what happened Mister Joker'?"

"I would like to pretend that yesterday as a whole didn't happen at all, okay Mister J?"

"Mister J! I like that. I like it." She glares. "Come on, I know you wanna talk. Come on, _talk._" When she stays silent, he reiterates his point:"_Talk!_"

Harley sighs loudly and looks down at the book in her lap. _Psychotherapy: Level Two._ "What do you hope to accomplish in your life, Mister Joker?"

He groans and rolls his eyes dramatically. "Don't start talking like a shrink. You're not, Harley." She glowers at him again. What's this? _True _hatred? But she doesn't hate _him_. No. The hate is directed at something deeper than just him himself. "I'm just dying to know: what's your last name?"

And she throws back her chair in such an aggressive motion; it almost causes Joker to jump. Blonde hair bounces with her movements as she paces back and forth. Like a grandfather clock's dial. Never, ever, ever has the doctor gotten up from her seat during a session. "You just never give up, do you? You finally get your answer, and now you want more." Joker raises an eyebrow. "It's Quinzel, okay. Harleen Quinzel. Ha, ha, ha. Yes, I know my parents punished me with a cruel, cruel name. Harlequin. I get it."

Joker only looks up at her. Stone silent. "But I don't get it…"

"You're kidding me, right?"

"You thought I was going to kill you."

No. No, no, no, no, no – he wasn't going to start. He couldn't start. She wouldn't be able to handle it.

"Do you _want_ to die?"

She can't do it. She turns away from him and leans against the tiled wall. "No."

"I'm not convinced." He's taunting her. She knows it. And she's going to let him do it too.

She turns on her heel and glares at him, directly into his deep, dark eyes. "No," she repeats with a force that rattles the table's shaky legs.

"Well then… did you know I was going to kiss you?"

An uncomfortable tingle flows through her body at the word _kiss_. "Certainly not."

"Why did you let me, then?"

She laughs so quietly, Joker thinks she might be sobbing. "I may be a psychiatrist, Mister J, but I will be the first to admit I don't have all the answers." She shuffles her feet. "Honestly, I don't know why I let you."

It's ridiculous how often she tries to lie to herself. "I think I know," he says in a sing-song tone. "_You_–" Joker circles his fingers (or what little amount his restraints will allow), "you get _bored_ easily. And you know what they say." He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "Only the boring get bored."

A single snort of annoyance escapes Harley. "Is that your answer then, Mister J? Because I'm _boring: _that's why I let you do… whatever you were going to do?"

"It's not a _bad_ thing," Joker assures her. "In fact, I admire you, for seeking out such _radical_ ways to keep yourself entertained." Leaning against the wall once more, she glowers at him. "Harley." The way he says her name makes her stomach turn in a nauseous movement and tickle in absurd delight. "I can see that you're trying to spice up your life, which makes you _so much_ less boring."

She debates whether or not to reply. Would it just encourage him? Wasn't that what she was here to do? Right now, she isn't so sure anymore. She keeps her stance against the wall and says, "Variety is the spice of life."

"There we go."

Underneath all the bitter frustration and bitter anger, all the sadness and _boredom_ of her small, uneventful life, Harley is curious. And curiosity, after all, is the only cure for boredom. But what could cure curiosity? She intends to find out.

All four goon guards stand armed and (for once) attentive along the back wall of the cozy little room. She says, "I need you guys to leave." When a second has passed and they haven't moved, she says, "We need to be alone."

"We–" Hank looks up and down the line of goons, "we can't leave you alone. We have orders."

Joker watches Harley's eyelashes, as they bat too close to Hanky Panky's face. "Everything will be _fine_. Trust me. We _need_ to be alone right now. Just the two of us." She has an incredible talent to persuade with her eyes. "Trust me," she says again. "I've got it all under control." The corners of Joker's mouth twinge. _Control!_ "I've made it this far without a scratch, haven't I?" she whispers. Because Joker can't hear her from across at twenty square foot room. The goony guards leave with one last persuasive reassurance in the woman's blue, blue eyes.

"Do you really believe that you've got it all _under control?_" Harley walks over to him as he continues to question her assertions. "Do you really _know_ that everything will be _fine_ – _under control_ – _a-okay?_" She is standing right next to him, not sitting in her usual spot where she belongs. "Or were you just saying all that to get them outta here?"

Her bottom lip disappears inside her mouth as she mulls over the question. "I don't _know_ anything for sure, Mister J." She dips down, so close to his face that the tips of their noses touch. "I don't even know what the hell is going on with me."

Joker giggles delightedly. "Oh, I think _I_ do!"

"Really?" she whispers as her eyes fall on his incredibly full lips. "Would you mind informing me then?"

But instead Joker catches her in the kiss. Without the use of hands, he somehow manages to pull her down on top of him, so he can search deeper inside her. Eager, hungry, and somehow tender, all Joker wants to do is _explore._ And Harley, being lost, emotionally energetic, and ready for change grants his longing.

Deeper, deeper, deeper the kiss goes, until the bumps on their tongues are entirely familiar to each other and Joker can't take it anymore. He needs to get out of this Godforsaken jacket. He needs to fully _appreciate_ her for _all_ of her talents. He needs to _have_ her fully (and when Joker wants something, _oh_, he gets it).

He starts to wrestle with the buckles and clips, biting and nipping while he goes. Excitement builds and Harley can taste it in her own blood. Joker howls into the hollow of her throat, frustrated. He can't get it off. For once in his life, _he can't get it off._

"J."

"Just give me a minute," he grunts. All he needs to do is dislocate one measly little arm and he'll be home free.

"Mister J." His eyes are dark and nothing but lust. "I think that should do it for today."

His cheeks twitch and he can't decide whether he wants to smile or not. "What's my diagnosis, Doc?" His voice is thick with laughter.

"I'll let you know as soon as I figure out what mine is," she whispers into his ear.

"Oh, how far we've come, Harley Quinn."

* * *

Again, thank you all for the wonderful, wonderful feedback. It does my heart good, it does. Please continue to leave your thoughts on this story. Thanks for taking the time to read and I apologize for the somewhat long wait.


	10. TEN

****

TEN

At first, Harley honestly tries to keep her professional persona. She asks him questions, to keep him busy; to keep her mind focused. But each effort always fails. She can't bring herself to control what her lips do, what her hands do, what her mind does.

Each and every ill-fated try ends in the exchange of saliva. And eventually, after a good week of attempts on her part, Harley learns to accept it – go with the natural flow of things – and free fall into Joker's world. It's quite funny; she didn't even realize how tight his hold was on her until after she had let go.

Two weeks into the good doctor and psychopathic clown's affair (so to speak), Harley fully breaks away from Don. Because (truth be told) she never looked forward to seeing him, touching him, kissing him. Because every day she looked forward to another chance with her own Harlequin instead. And everyday, Joker can feel Harley's conscience and ethics slip away in each new kiss. And he _loves_ it. He loves it for all it's worth.

* * *

"How could he have escaped?" _Frequent escapes,_ she had written once. She knew, all along, that Joker wasn't about to let an asylum keep him from doing what he lives for. And Joker lives to live. She knew, all along, that he _was_ going to escape some how, some way, some day. However, she did not know that he would be leaving any time soon. "I thought you had him under the highest security possible."

Jeremiah Arkham is not interested in answering _the psychiatrist's_ questions. She isn't a priority to him. "Miss Quinzel, both Arkham Asylum and the Gotham Police are doing their best to try and detain… your patient." He can't bring himself to say _the Joker_. "I suggest you keep your distance from this investigation."

Harley suppresses the urge to hit him over the head with a very, very large mallet. "Mister Arkham, I could provide information about the _patient_ that investigators might find helpful."

He isn't paying her any attention now; just signing papers and ignoring calls. "Mister Arkham!" Harley slams her fists on the cherry wood of his desk. Violence floods her mind like never before. "I can help get him back!"

Arkham's eyes smolder her. He throws down his pen. "This isn't about you, Quinzel!" She doesn't backtrack from his eruption. "Go the hell home, and for your own damn safety stay there! Get out of town, for all I care! Just get out of my office!" But Harley can't move from her spot. The urge to use a weapon more along the lines of a bazooka is sufficiently harder to suppress. "Quinzel," he says, warning her. "Go somewhere safe and stay hidden until we find him. That's an order." She stares and wonders if he has the authority to do that.

* * *

Wayne owned (of course) Gotham Suites is by far the swankiest hotel in the metropolis. Gold leaf molding and pure marble archways; this place isn't cheap. But Harley isn't planning to stay long, so why not make the most of her short getaway and go _all out?_

"Hello. I'm checking in." Harley is sure the clerk's nametag is made of gold as well.

"Your name, please?"

A name. She needs an alias. She needs a name that isn't Harleen Quinzel. But she can't hide her identity; not completely at least. "Harley Quinn."

The clerk doesn't think twice, slides the credit card, and hands her the keys. "Enjoy your stay, Miss Quinn."

She keeps her eyes on Gotham's skyline while holding a glass of vodka precariously between her fingers. Cars pass. Ferries pass. No explosions. No disturbances.

But Harley is abruptly disturbed by the sudden ring of the telephone. She eyes it suspiciously before daring the pick it up. "Hello," she answers pleasantly, fearlessly, knowingly.

"You didn't hide yourself very well, Harleen."

She takes a sip of the glass and tries to slow down her heartbeat. The vodka is too strong for her taste, but she swallows anyway. "What are you talking about? I wasn't trying to."

He laughs into the speaker so loudly, Harley has to pull it away from her ear. "Did you miss me?"

"Terribly."

"Admit it, you love me."

"Madly." And they both know this much is true.

"Are you ready to play some of _my_ games, love?"

"Bring them on, Mister J."

And the line goes dead.

* * *

Well, I tried. I really did. I thought, so much is happening in this one, it's sure to be a long one. But it wasn't. At all. I'm sorry! I just - can't write long things... Short and sweet is suppose. I hope this one put something in your head. Something that you maybe wouldn't mind putting into a review...? Thanks for reading and so forth and so such.


	11. ELEVEN

I know. Long wait. And I apologize, but this will be worth it. It's the last chapter and it's super long!

My friend asked me after reading the last chapter (TEN) how I was going to end this. More specifically, she asked if it was going to be a happy ending. I can't say that I believe in happy endings, or sad ones for that matter. I believe in endings – whether they're sad or happy all depends on if it's appropriate for the story. So, here's the ending, happy or sad. You can be the judge.

* * *

**ELEVEN**

She knew it was silly, and she knew it was very unlikely, but the only real dream she'd ever had in her life was to become a member of the Olympic gymnastics team. And if that dream panned out (like she knew so well that it would), a gold medal would be a nice touch. But she didn't care too much about receiving a medal – really. She only wanted to be there; to show the world that Harley Quinzel could carry out her impeccable routines on the vault, bars, balance beam, and floor.

But of course, as most of these stories go, others became jealous of her natural talent and intense motivation. They tore her (one and only) dream down with just one push of an uneven bar. Her shattered leg did not repair itself until long after her (one and only) chance had passed before her glassy eyes.

She only wanted to prove that she had more to offer this world than just a good laugh at her ridiculous joke of a name. Maybe she still could.

* * *

When she receives the call that morning, it only takes Harley about twenty minutes to get down to the Gotham City Police Department.

"Doctor Quinzel, is it?" Harley examines the man addressing her. Graying hair and a mustache resembling a caterpillar tell her that he spends too many hours in a job that is much too big for him. She can relate. "Commissioner Jim Gordon," he introduces. His hand is firm and frantic in hers. "I'm sorry to have to bring you down here like this with no explanation, but we received a call from the Joker demanding that he speak with you." Harley tries, with difficulty, to look surprised. "Said it was something about a nervous breakdown." Now, she tries hard not to laugh.

"Did he leave a number – or _anything_?"

"No." Well, of course not. "We aren't sure how to contact him." With one sudden ring, he excuses himself to answer his cell phone. He sees from the caller ID that it is one of his field agents. "Did you get anything yet?"

"Good morning, Commissioner." Harley can hear his erratic voice from where she stood. She tries again to stifle her laughter at the sight of Gordon's face. "Would you please be so kind as to pass the phone to Miss Quinzel?" She watches the lump in his throat grow noticeably larger as he debates his decisions.

"Hello?" Harley asks the speaker after a stony faced Gordon hands her the cell and bursts into his police-like action.

"First," Joker begins with a breath, "tell the coppers that are listening in on this call to _stop_ listening and trying to trace it." She eyes the policemen and nods to them. They drop their equipment.

"Anything else?"

"Meet me in room two hundred twelve at Gotham High School."

She waits for him to continue, and when he doesn't she says, "Or…?

"Or nothing. Just come in sixty minutes. And without clothes."

Harley can't keep her jaw from dropping at that. "I'm sorry?"

"Naked, please. Oh! And tell your friends over there what our plans are, I'll blow up the school."

The almost silent, high pitched tone of the dead line reminds her that he's hung up on her. She hands the phone back to the Commissioner, telling him not to worry about anything; she just needed to consol him for a bit. But all she can think about are his somewhat horrifying instructions.

* * *

If Harley has to choose, the only decision she regrets making in the past two months is putting on that leopard print bra this morning. Not even coming here, to face her pretty imminent death. Oh, how mad! love is.

But people have done madder things for love. Maybe. She supposes people die for others that they love quite frequently. Then again, she isn't dying _for_ him. She doesn't even know _why_ she is dying; all that she knows for certain is that she's here – now – because she doesn't have a better alternative. Love is mad. Or maybe it's she that is mad.

Room two hundred twelve just so happens to be the farthest classroom from the base of the school; up one flight of stairs and down two separate halls. When Harley's hand finally reaches the doorknob, she is almost certain that Joker is directly on the other side, waiting to jump at her. But of course, only the eyes of fairly confused teenagers meet her.

That is curveball in itself. Students. She hadn't been expecting there to be any kids in the room of their meeting. But of course, she wasn't really expecting anything in particular – just going with the flow of things… for once.

"I thought," came his voice (accompanied by an array of frightened gasps), "that my directions were pretty clear."

Harley can't help herself from staring at the man who now grasps the back of her head and thrusts her face close to his own. His dark eyes appear darker with unfamiliar black smeared sloppily around them and his scars that had been practically unnoticeable prior are now impossible to ignore when slathered in red. Harley can't help the first thought that pops into her clouded mind: how easy it must be to apply makeup in such a fashion. She smiles to herself at the thought of a simpler life such as that.

"Take the shirt off, beautiful."

His demand brings Harley back to what little amount of reality she's still consciously grasping onto. Squirming out of his hold, she glowers at him wordlessly.

"Many things I've been called, Harley Quinn. Rapist is not one of them." He gestures emotionlessly again for her to remove her top.

_Why?_ she wants to ask. There are many things she would like to ask, but can't stop her fingers from unbuttoning the black satin of her blouse. And her face turns a milk white shade when she recalls the bra she clipped on that morning. Leopard print. Red lace. Almost transparent. And now she is cold. _Of all the lingerie…_

Joker's eyebrows shoot up and he suppresses a laughing fit with a small smirk. "You didn't dress up for me, did you?" Harley barely has any time to reply with another glare as his arms grip around her small frame. She can feel the cold blade of his dagger against her bare clavicle.

"Hello there," he whispers into the side of her face.

"What are you doing?" she breathes while he traces the tip of the knife along her bone.

"I could ask you the same thing." Harley opens her mouth to reply, but shuts it soon after she realizes she has none. "Ah." She can't see his face, but can hear the smile on it. "You don't know, do you? Well – here's a little clue." Joker's lips are warm against her freezing neck. "You. Love. Me."

"Even if I did," she can sense his mouth stretch into a sly smile on his skin with her lack of denial, "that still doesn't explain why I'm in my underwear right now." Because she doesn't know herself.

"Not completely in your underwear," he reminds her cunningly. "_And_, it does too." Harley turns her head now to face him for the first time. "You see, _because _you love me, you're willing to come down to my level. And seeing as how that's impossible for… well, anyone but me to do without losing their minds, you're losing yours. It's as simple as that." He laughs and a student whimpers, bringing their audience to his attention for (seemingly) the first time. Smiling to himself, he digs the knife into her shoulder, strategically missing the left common carotid but still leaving a decent enough gash to instill fear in the hearts of the people in front of them (if fear didn't exist already). Harley gasps at the sudden pain, but stifles the intense desire to cry out.

"So here's the lesson for the morning," Joker begins, suddenly freeing Harley from his grasp and starting for the class of kids who couldn't have been much older than fifteen. She tries to feel some sort of remorse for them; tries to muster the words to tell him to leave them alone, but no such words exist. Her ethics are indeed slipping away.

He claps his hands together. A few kids jump. "Why you? I mean, you're _innocent kids_. Aren't you?" He looks quickly back to Harley and throws her a small expression of mock disappointment. "Right. Of _course_ you are." He swings his knife, now dripping her blood, in front of each face. "How many of you have smoked pot?" While trying to keep the blood from pouring out of her fresh wound, Harley knows that she isn't the only one taken aback by his question. No one says a word. "Come on; what am I going to do? Tell on you?" She laughs. "How many of you have smoked pot?" he repeats, slower.

A few bold teenagers raise their hands hesitantly. "Leave," Joker instructs to them. They remain wary. "_Leave!_" They leave quickly. "How many of you have been drunk?" More hands rise now, and again he tells the non-innocent to go free. "How many of you have cheated on a test?" He asks the remainder. Many hands reach out in the air confidently and, like the groups before, leave the room.

"And the rest of you," Joker says to the ten or so left. "You are either liars or are just too proud to lie." There is a glint in his eye that Harley has never known before: satisfied and pleased sorrow. "Leave." The remnants get up tentatively and do as they're told.

A small puddle of blood is forming under his shoes from the drenched knife. He spends a moment enjoying the scene. But he stops without warning and turns about to face her. "Here," he tosses Harley a handgun from his jacket pocket.

She turns it over in her hand. "What am I supposed to do with this?" Joker hauls her to her feet and pushes her out the door.

"Shoot it."

"At who?"

Joker snickers. "Anyone but us. Unless, of course, you feel so compelled. But something tells me if you wanted either of us dead you would have done it by now."

Harley wants to come to grips with what is happening before her, but is finding rather difficult to do so at the pace they were moving. "Mister J, wait." And almost too easily, Joker stops pushing her and waits for her words. "What's going on?"

"Come on, Harley. You're a smart girl. Use those P.H.D. brains."

"Well let's say for argument's sake that I'm not a smart girl; that my brain isn't completely here at the moment." He leers slightly, but keeps his eyes locked into her cerulean ones. "What's going on?"

Joker's hand clutches her waist and he forces her to move with him as he speaks. "We're doing what we were born to do." _Born to create anarchy, you silly, silly girl._ "Will you hurry up? He'll be here soon and I don't want to miss the entrance."

Her feet obey with his demands but she scoffs. "You're kidding."

"Do I kid?" Joker's face is serious for a moment before releasing a single _Ha!_

"How do you know he'll come?"

"He always comes." He has a point there.

Before Harley has time to prepare herself properly, Joker slams her against the stucco wall, pinning his body against her. "This is a nice look for you – blood and bra." Although she wants to, she can't bring herself to scowl back at him.

When he plunges down at her, it is noticeably different from how it had been at Arkham. Harley can feel his freedom swallow her in the kiss. He breathes down on her neck harshly, saying, "That's _much_ better without a straight jacket."

"Let her go."

"I always miss the entrance," Joker smiles, as if speaking only to Harley. He spins around, his violet trench coat swinging around his legs. "How _are_ you, Bats? I haven't seen you in a while now, have I?"

"Let the girl go."

_Girl?_

But Joker only frowns and skips away from Harley, closer to the Batman. "Well I can honestly say I don't know _what_ you're talking about. This isn't a kidnapping." Except from the way she appears, it's easy to make that assumption. "She doesn't _want _to go." The Batman is so obviously bewildered, Harley finds it cute. "Is it so hard," Joker continues in a loud whisper, leaning into his masked face, "to believe that someone can actually love me?"

Understandably, the Batman is tired of Joker's games and lunges forward at him, knocking him against the wall and creating a dent in the process. "Is this how you solve all your problems? Maybe you should consider some anger management? _Ha ha!"_

As the two continue to fight, Harley is faced with an extreme moral dilemma she never thought she would think twice about. The Batman or the Joker. Batman or Joker. Bat or Joke. Good or evil. Evil or good. _Is the line dividing the two really all that distinct?_

_Bang!_

The masked vigilante and the mad clown both stop and stare at the half naked woman before them, aiming the smoking gun just beyond their heads. A SWAT member lies on the concrete with a single bullet wound directly between the eyes.

The Batman is too stunned to notice Joker's maniacal laughter and the sudden stab in his side (courtesy of his handy-dandy shoes). He staggers to stand on his feet again, but when he does, the barrel of Joker's gun is pointed at Harley's temple.

"Whose side is she on?"

Joker only laughs. "Good question." He looks down at her face, as if the answer were written on her forehead. "But I do believe she's already answered that." An explosion of glass bursts behind them as a horn sounds. "Our cue," Joker says simply after shooting the second story window open.

They came crashing down onto the semi truck before Harley even registered they were falling. How disappointing. That's half the fun, isn't it? Probably all of it, actually.

"This is the life," Joker sighs in his face paint war paint and his ridiculously purple suit. And all Harley can do is laugh along with him. This _is_ the life. So, her first life had failed (the second she missed the uneven bar). The life where she clung so strongly to what was right and just. _If you're successful, sure, that life works. But what if you're not? Where do you go from there?_

The answer had been black and white all along.

* * *

Well, I hope that wasn't a totally lame ending. It _was_ an ending. Happy? Sad? Horrible? Wonderful? Somewhere in the between? Let me know! I'm just super stoked it's finished.

And if, for some reason, you are sad that this story has come to an end or, for an even weirder reason, you liked my writing or, for the weirdest reason, both, I'm not done with Batman (ahem, Joker moreover) fanfiction. Wow, big fragment. Anyways, I have another idea up my sleeve for a Joker story. Sorry, you haven't heard the last from me.

Thanks to all those people who've read, reviewed, and/or favorite-ed this story. It's meant the world to little-old-me.


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